


Semper Fi

by veronamay



Series: Marine!Sam AU [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M, Military Fetish, Plot What Plot, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-31
Updated: 2006-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marine!Sam AU (but otherwise canon-compliant).  PWP.  Pop-tart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semper Fi

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday present for Wendy. It's fitting because she's the one who gave me the damned idea in the first place. At least I know I'm not suffering alone. *g* Happy birthday, Wendy!

The first time he gets caught in the middle of a hunt, Sam manages to pass it off as a joke, a freshman prank. It's pretty easy; he's only exorcising a ghost, so there's nothing more incriminating than a pile of burning bones and his unusual aptitude for Latin.

The second time, he has to do some fast talking to avoid a trip downtown. There's the machete, for one thing, and the Glock full of silver rounds for another. He claims to be transporting them for his uncle, who wants to sell them, and it takes the full force of his most innocent, wide-eyed stare to get the campus police to back off. They confiscate both weapons, and he knows he's been black-marked as one for watching, but all in all he's gotten off lightly. And it's not like he can't avoid them if he wants to; they're only cops, after all. Rent-a-cops, even.

The third time, Sam knows it's all over before the first beam of torchlight finds him. He's stuck in the middle of a park in the middle of campus with a slashed-to-hell six-foot linebacker cowering in the bushes, a dead werecat at his feet and his hands covered in blood (purple, not red, but it looks the same by moonlight), and before he can say anything he's being shoved to his knees and his wrists are cuffed behind his back, and all he can think is, stupidly, _This never would've happened to Dean._

* * *

You have a choice, they tell him. You can go before the judge and take your chances on the battery charge. They show him the photos of the linebacker, whose name he doesn't even know, and he winces at the sight.

What's behind door number two? he asks.

When they tell him, Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or scream.

* * *

When he gets out three years later, he immediately starts tracking Dean. He's been watching the obits; he knows vaguely where he must be. Florida's a hotspot in the summertime; all that humidity stirs things up that are best left sleeping. Sam gets on a Greyhound and sleeps most of the way to Miami.

It only takes half an hour to track down the Impala. Well. 'Track down' is a relative term – in truth, Dean drives right by him on the street and never notices. Sam smothers a slightly hysterical laugh and flags down a taxi to follow him. They end up at a Super 8 – no surprises there – and Sam barely notices that their dad's truck isn't parked in the lot before he's banging on the door of No. 4.

"Hold your horses, I'm comin'!" Dean yells irritably, and Sam chokes on his laughter again. He probably should've gotten changed, he thinks. Too late now.

Dean yanks the door open, eyebrows lowered in a formidable scowl, and then he stops dead when he sees the uniform. His eyes travel slowly down to Sam's feet, where his duffel sits on the ground; then it tracks back up Sam's body, taking in every detail in between: the blue-grey camouflage cloth, the corporal's stripes, the peaked cap, and the buzzcut. Sam stands at what he insists to himself is _not_ parade rest, and says,

"Hi, Dean."

"Holy effing hell," Dean says conversationally. "Dad's going to _kill_ you."

"Good to see you too," Sam says.

* * *

After Dean stops appreciating the irony (read: laughing his ass off), he tilts his head and looks at Sam thoughtfully. Appraising him, kind of. Sam tries not to react to it, but it's hard. He hasn't seen Dean in four years, and the urge to look back, to make an overture, is strong enough to make his hands tremble. He clenches them into fists on his knees and keeps his eyes on the far wall.

"You know," Dean says, "that uniform suits you."

Sam's eyes snap to Dean before he can stop himself. Dean's leaning against the counter in the small kitchenette, smirking, his body language daring Sam to make a move. And it may have been four years and Sam may not have touched another man in all that time, but it only takes half a second for him to remember every time they've laid hands on each other, and another half a second to get hard. Then he's up, across the room and in Dean's space before either of them draws another breath.

"Miss me, bro?" Sam whispers. His hands find Dean's hips and grip in their accustomed places, thumbs in the grooves beneath his hipbones.

"Maybe," Dean whispers back, and for Dean, that's a declaration. Sam inhales sharply, reeling from a sudden surge of _want_ , and then they're kissing, and it's entirely new and completely familiar and Sam never wants to leave this again. He loves kissing Dean, biting on soft lips and sucking on that flexible, talented tongue, and he's had four years to think about all the things he wants to do. He hopes Dad's going to be gone for a few days. Or weeks. Maybe a month.

"Dad?" he pants, sliding his hands under Dean's t-shirt, dragging his nails over warm skin.

"Delaware," Dean grunts in response. "No idea what for." He almost rips Sam's shirt off, then stops to stare in awe at what's underneath. " _Dude_. Military service is good for you."

Sam can't help it; he grins a little, and flexes one pec, just because he can. Dean groans at the sight and almost drags him over to the bed, pushing him down and crawling up over his body until he's straddling Sam's hips, tearing his own t-shirt off and throwing it across the room.

"You _did_ miss me," Sam says. "Aw, shucks, Dean."

Dean leans down and bites his shoulder, not gently.

"Shut up and fuck me, moron."

"Yessir."

Sam arches up, intending to take off his pants and boots. Dean stops him when he gets the zipper down, a slight flush on his cheeks.

"You could ... leave those on. If you want." He won't meet Sam's eyes, plays with his dog tags for a moment before smoothing his hands over Sam's chest. Sam waits a beat, thinks about teasing him.

"Okay," he says, and lets his hands fall away. Dean lets out a shuddering breath and kisses him, soft and demanding and hungry all at once, and he keeps touching Sam like he can't quite let go. Sam runs his hands up and down Dean's back, loving the warmth and weight of him, the tactile pleasure of skin on skin, _Dean's_ skin, which is a thousand times better than anything else in the world. He arches up into Dean's hands on his chest and slides his own hands down to unzip Dean's jeans. He pulls out Dean's cock with one hand and slides the other around and back to curve over the perfection that is Dean's ass. Dean grunts and rocks against him, back and forth, his tongue stabbing deep into Sam's mouth as Sam starts stroking him with the slow, tight grip he knows Dean loves.

"C'mon, baby, that's it," he murmurs when they break the kiss for air. "Been waiting four years for this, Dean. Come on, come for me."

Dean's hips snap forward and he starts thrusting into Sam's hand, knees spread wide across Sam's prone body, his cock iron-hard and wet with sweat and pre-come sliding slickly through Sam's fingers. Sam grips Dean's ass with his other hand and hauls him closer, knowing Dean's right on the edge, wanting to see it when he comes. He wants Dean all over him, wants to be marked by him. This isn't permanent enough, but it'll do for a start.

"Sam – gonna—" Dean gasps, and tries to pull away, but Sam pulls him closer still and speeds up his strokes. He's so hard it hurts, but he wants this first, and so he leans in as much as he can and closes his mouth around the tip of Dean's cock. That's all it takes; Dean moans and his hips stutter, and he rears up and comes all over Sam's chest and face, white splashes almost glowing against the honey-gold tan of Sam's skin.

"You missed me a _lot_ , huh," Sam manages after a minute, his cock heavy with the need to fuck something, anything. Dean, face down on Sam's chest, huffs out a lazy snort.

"Laugh it up, bitch. I still say Dad's going to kill you." He looks up, his eyes glinting with contentment, clever fingers snaking down to take hold of Sam's cock. "But first ..."

"Ooh-rah," Sam says faintly, and Dean grins and bends his head.

END


End file.
